Heights Trophy Property Up for Grabs
Last week 24 Remsen Street hit the market, offering a deep-pocketed buyer the chance to own a 9,250-square-foot, 12-bedroom property in prime Brooklyn Heights for $14,000,000. The building, which its listing broker Donald Brennan purchased in 2005 and renovated into four condos that hit the market in late 2008, is now being positioned as either…
Last week 24 Remsen Street hit the market, offering a deep-pocketed buyer the chance to own a 9,250-square-foot, 12-bedroom property in prime Brooklyn Heights for $14,000,000. The building, which its listing broker Donald Brennan purchased in 2005 and renovated into four condos that hit the market in late 2008, is now being positioned as either an investment opportunity or, potentially, a single-family mansion. Brennan has the following to say about the rationale behind the new listing: “When the work was complete in late 2008 market conditions were extremely poor but we advertised the units for sale anyway for a short period of time while we prepared to put the property into service as a rental property. I leased the 4 units in early 2009 and they are still occupied by tenants. As the real estate is extremely valuable due to its superior location, pre-existing non-conforming over-built bulk and attractive architectural style and details I am in no rush to dispose of it. A number of parties recently expressed interest in acquiring the property in its current configuration and use with the intention of using it as an owner-occupied rental property, so I put a price on it. The price equation includes a capitalized net operating income from three of the four rental units plus the market value of the remaining unit inclusive of the typical ownership premium. I thought I would advertise it more publicly while these parties are contemplating their next move.”
24 Remsen Street [Brennan Realty; 2nd Listing] GMAP
CGar and Montrose: Some times when I’m in Brooklyn I’ll detour into Remsen Street just to look up at the windows of the old place. The block looks much as it did back then, although more polished. And my little building has put on some swag. No doubt there isn’t a single “marginal” person like me left in the joint. Do newly-minted college grads go to the Heights anymore? I doubt it. Who can afford it?
NOP, that was a wonderful story.
Great stories, NOP!!
Wasn’t the original purchase price around $5MM? Hmmmm…add another $2MM for renovation. I would say the asking price is about is about $5MM to $6MM overpriced.
However, great looking work and building.
Mopar: New York in the 70’s felt residually like the 50’s. One moment Catcher in the Rye. The next moment Taxi Driver. The old symbols were falling fast. (Who remembers the Men’s Bar at the Biltmore, redoubt for Columbia frat boys?) But of all Brooklyn neighborhoods, the Heights held on longest. And I suspect people are buying there in search of that atmosphere today.
I’m not surprised, Bxgrl. I’m sure if Brownstoners put pins in a Brooklyn map we’d see that most of us have been neighbors or crossed paths at some time or other, with certain street intersections common to almost everybody.
As soon as I got out of Columbia I high-tailed it back to Brooklyn. My family had moved out of town, but the borough had a special power over me. At the time, the Heights was relatively cheap, although I know the realtor gave me a skeptical look when I showed up after reading the rental ad in the Times. Who was I, three weeks out of college with nothing more than summer jobs, looking at Remsen Street? But I was careful to be presentable in a blazer and chinos and — frankly — flirted with her a little.
References, nevertheless, were required. So I listed people I knew on Fifth Avenue. Scanning the hyphenated names, she visibly relaxed, and I knew I was “in.” (My parents didn’t even have to co-sign!) And let’s not forget, this was the bad old 1970’s, when Ford told the city to “drop dead,” and a warm body was welcomed at most rentals.
I did have a temporary roommate, however. A mouse. Late at night, I’d hear rustling in the kitchen but for months wasn’t able to figure out what it was. Then I thought of lifting the stove hood (even then, I never cooked, so had no reason to check the pilot) and discovered a cozy nest of aluminum foil, cotton balls and twigs.
What to do?
I consulted the gent who ran a hardware store on Montague Street and he brought out a little yellow cardboard box shaped like a wedge of cheese. By pinching the end perforated by teeth marks (amusing, but ghoulish), I was to open the poison and await the result.
And I waited and waited until I’d forgotten all about it when suddenly one evening I watched the mouse crawl from the kitchen across the living room in his death throes. Really, it was like a night at the opera. The little guy was in agony, and slipped under the front door just as my upstairs neighbor was coming down the stairs.
The building was an old town house, so one could hear every creak of the floorboards. My neighbor was a leggy model who barely glanced my way to and from the hired cars waiting for her at the door most evenings. But I knew her step and awaited the results.
Needless to say there was a great shriek and clatter of heels. I waited a respectable amount of time and gathered the mouse’s remains, chuckling all the way to garbage can.
On a more serious note, Remsen Street was the first place where I entertained my family. After years of dependency, I was finally able to “reciprocate.” Mother and Sister Woman came to tea. (I was bad at it, but they appreciated the gesture.) But more significant for a young man — and much more anxiety producing — was hosting Dad.
He’d announced he’d be in town only a day before arriving, so I had to put everything in order fast. The fire place was lit and I had my surprise in store.
Dad arrived and executed his tour, noting everything on the walls and smiling at the mis-matched furniture.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking a framed photograph from the mantle. It was an old shot of his parents, leaving church, Grandfather in a severe black suit, Nanna in a fur coat and hat with a veil. My mother had given it to me on her visit for tea. “I haven’t seen this for years.”
“Drink?” I asked. (This was my surprise.)
“Why — yes.”
I poured two whiskeys neat, in special glasses I’d bought just that afternoon.
He settled into one of my ratty chairs.
“Son, I like the way you live.”
The highest praise I’ve ever had in my life.
NOP, sounds like the 50s more than the 70s. Enjoyed the story. In the same era, we in California were hoisting margaritas and tortilla chips and guacamole.
omg, NOP- I lived on Remsen until 1980- between Clinton and Henry. we were neighbors!
The first apartment I had on my own after college was on this block of Remsen. It was a parlor-floor rental with a wood-burning fireplace. The view of the street from the big windows was as good as they come — especially in the snow.
At the time (the late 70’s), the Heights was “transitioning” from a staid backwater to a trendier, more transient place. The Old Guard — friends and acquaintances of my family — constantly complained about the loss of shops and services that had been in the neighborhood for decades. Although the percentage of blue-haired ladies was still high, it was diminishing.
I rented a tall ladder from the hardware store on Montague Street so I could get all the way to the top of my apartment’s walls to paint them and the crown moldings. (Parlor floor ceilings are what — 12 feet high?) I bought some rag-tag furniture from a place on Clinton Street, I think. My parents gave me art to hang and rugs to throw around.
Back then, new college grads were anxious to show how adult and “sophisticated” they were. So friends and frat brothers would come by for high balls next to the fire before we headed out for the evening, which could include the Plaza or St. Regis or dark joints in Alphabet City. (Who says “high ball” anymore?) Women, especially, loved the “charm” of the place and plied me with decorating advice. (I wanted the Sherlock Holmes’ Baker Street look; they wanted to brighten and lighten everything up.)
Not a bad life for a 21-year old. Affordable then. Definitely not now.
Nostalgic on Park Avenue